


Vici

by empty_throne



Category: Gladiator (2000)
Genre: Anal Sex, Blood Kink, Crueltide, Cruelty, Dry Sex, Hate Sex, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Stabbing, Yuleporn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-19
Updated: 2017-12-19
Packaged: 2019-02-16 22:31:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,082
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13063518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/empty_throne/pseuds/empty_throne
Summary: Before they go into the arena, there is one more defeat Maximus can suffer.





	Vici

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hellabaloo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellabaloo/gifts).



_Smile for me now, brother._

He knows how to angle his blade so it glides between the ribs without striking bone. Commodus’s knife slips in easily, meeting no real resistance, and he hears Maximus make a soft, choked-off gasp in his ear.

Above, the people are chanting. _Maximus. Maximus. Maximus._

Not for much longer.

He withdraws the knife, feels Maximus slump just a little against him, involuntarily. Some impulse drives Commodus to press his lips to the man’s cheek, a swift, contemptuous kiss before he backs away.

Quintus stands ready. Commodus says, “Strap on his armor. Conceal the wound.” The people will never know why their hero failed.

When Quintus releases the chains, Maximus falls heavily to his knees. From the shock, Commodus thinks; it can’t be the wound already. The hole is small, and only a little red around the edges. He’s bleeding into his body rather than out. In time it might kill him, but for now, all it should do is slow him down. Maximus is kneeling because he knows he’s already beaten.

One of the guards brings Maximus’s famous cuirass. As they haul the man upright to strap it on, though, Commodus says, “Wait.”

They halt, one man holding each arm, one standing ready with the cuirass. Commodus circles his fallen enemy, looking. Thinking.

He has read his philosophers. The Greeks praised the love between men, holding it in more esteem than the marriage of a man and a woman. But they spent themselves between the thighs of their youthful lovers, because it was shameful for a man to be penetrated. To take the woman’s part in bed.

There is one more shame he can visit upon Maximus, before the end. One more defeat.

“Chain his hands together. Behind his back.”

They obey without hesitation. The loyalty of his Praetorian Guard is unshakeable, and Commodus hides nothing from them. They have seen him with whores. With youths he has taken in the Greek way. With his sister.

Now they will watch him subject the former general to the ultimate degradation.

Once Maximus’s hands are shackled behind his back, they step away. Maximus still kneels, but he holds himself straight, as if there is not a small patch of red in his side, slowly growing. Commodus looks at him and thinks, _he will not bend. Not willingly._

So he drives his fist into the wound. A strangled sound bursts from Maximus, halfway between a grunt and a scream, and he doubles over. Commodus forces him down with one hand on his neck, holds him there pinned while the other hand fumbles at clothing. Maximus is easy enough to strip, but Commodus’s own armor gets in the way.

He manages in the end, because he’s not going to let anyone else step in and hold his prisoner, his slave, while he frees his cock. It’s painfully hard. He should have done this ages ago, should have raped Maximus into submission, broken his spirit until he could defy the emperor no more.

Commodus forces the man’s knees wider with his own, exposing his ass. Then, with one hand still holding Maximus pinned and the other guiding his cock, he thrusts.

It doesn’t go in. Not like it does with a woman, whose body slicks itself in readiness for him. Maximus’s hole is tight and unwelcoming. Commodus’s jaw clenches in fury. He knows this can be done; he knows even that there are men who enjoy it. He refuses to humiliate himself in front of his men by failing.

So he places the head of his cock against the hole and _shoves_. It slips in a little, and Maximus grunts involuntarily. Triumph flares in Commodus’s heart. He thrusts again, forcing his way in one finger’s width at a time. He can feel Maximus breathing harder, his heart kicking up as if to prepare for battle. But there will be no battle here, only conquest. Deeper and deeper, until he’s buried his full length in Maximus’s ass and pauses, gasping.

This isn’t like a woman, either. Not closing around him like a long, wet glove. It’s a hard ring of muscle, holding him tight, and he almost thanks Maximus for resisting. Loose, he thinks, would be much less pleasurable.

Speaking of pleasure.

A small whimper escapes Maximus as Commodus pulls back. He swallows it down almost immediately, because he’s still proud; he still thinks he can show strength. But Commodus knows the truth. It’s here before him: Maximus kneeling, bent with his head to the ground, ass spread and speared. Commodus thrusts again, and this time it’s easier. His free hand digs into Maximus’s hip, hard enough to bruise, as he settles into a rhythm. A glance downward shows him streaks of red marking his cock; Maximus is bleeding a little. Like his side.

Yes. That was what put the idea into his head. Not Maximus on his knees, but before that . . . the knife, slipping so easily between the ribs, penetrating Maximus’s body.

Lust flares in Commodus at the thought. It’s not just about conquest anymore. He lets go with his pinning hand, grips the other side of Maximus’s hip, so he can slam forward with unrestrained force. The slave’s cheek grinds into the boards, back and forth, and he can no longer silence his ragged breaths as Commodus rapes him. This, Commodus thinks, is how it _always_ should have been. Before Marcus Aurelius ever died. Maximus should have been his, like this, a man on the field but a woman for Commodus’s pleasure.

The only sounds are Maximus’s grunts, Commodus’s panting, and the crowd up above. _Maximus! Maximus! Maximus!_

As if to celebrate Commodus’s possession.

He bites down on his howl when his pleasure finally bursts. He spills himself into Maximus’s ass, marking him, owning him, now and forever. He slows, gasping, and stays where he is while his cock slowly softens. Only when it has gone completely limp does he pull free, trailing a little wisp of semen and blood.

He leans forward and kisses one muscled globe of Maximus’s ass, smiling a secret little smile to himself. Commodus will never have this experience again . . . but the memory will stay with him until his dying day.

Then he levers himself to his feet. He doesn’t even clean himself off before tucking his cock back into his clothing; he wants to keep the evidence of his victory.

“Now,” he says to the Praetorian Guard. “Strap on his armor. And hide the wound.”

**Author's Note:**

> I didn't even sign up for Yuletide this year, but I was reading through prompts and saw yours and couldn't resist. It's deeply fucked up, but you said it was okay to go dark, so... hopefully this is the good kind of dark.


End file.
